[ Like rock grinding against metal, low and rumbling and inevitable. Reasons he never learned much Ander- the glottal and guttural twist to the tongue was difficult after the lilt and glide of Antivan.
But he tries. ]
Isaam?
[ Still too slick, too light, too breathy on the 'aah'. Zevran swallows, tries again. Less slick, less light, but not quite hard enough. ]
[ And as his fingers start to move again, his lips catch against Zevran's mouth, stealing a short but heady kiss from him before murmuring against his mouth. ]
Again.
[ More meaning depth, pace, meaning more than just fingers, once he's been made ready. But he'll happily keep him like this, working him open until he's boneless against him and begging, working to remember that foreign tongue. ]
[ Impossible to catch his breath, to focus on anything more than the slow, steady press of Bull's fingers and the shape of that word when he's claimed thusly-
He had half a mind to ask what 'please' might be but the thought of wrapping his head around two words of Qunlat?
Just the one. Over and over, sliding to either side of sibilant or too guttural as he over-corrects while melting against Bull. ]
[ He's given this, his space to melt, cupping a hand to the back of his head and threading those scarred fingers through his hair. There's nothing else he has to do now except enjoy this, roll the feel of that word on his tongue until he's satisfied, while Bull feels him part around the steady thrust of those digits. Slick and unrelenting.
Three fingers now, and if he spreads them it's enough to encounter that resistance anew, that line that marks too much closer again than before. But it's all at the same slow, steady pace as before.
Bull takes a breath, smelling oil and sweat and arousal on the air and on Zevran's skin, and leans close enough to press his knotted, scarred forehead to the elf's. ]
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But he tries. ]
Isaam?
[ Still too slick, too light, too breathy on the 'aah'. Zevran swallows, tries again. Less slick, less light, but not quite hard enough. ]
Isaam-
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[ As he speaks, he's sinking in, two knuckles deep, slow but angled. ]
When I've got my fingers pressing up into you just right, and you feel that punch in your lungs. Isaam.
[ But there's no withdrawal, not yet, just that steady pressure, waiting for the word. ]
Again.
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Isaam.
[ Stuttered, stalled. He sucks in a breath and focuses on the pressure that keeps him from breathing too deep. ]
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[ And as his fingers start to move again, his lips catch against Zevran's mouth, stealing a short but heady kiss from him before murmuring against his mouth. ]
Again.
[ More meaning depth, pace, meaning more than just fingers, once he's been made ready. But he'll happily keep him like this, working him open until he's boneless against him and begging, working to remember that foreign tongue. ]
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[ Impossible to catch his breath, to focus on anything more than the slow, steady press of Bull's fingers and the shape of that word when he's claimed thusly-
He had half a mind to ask what 'please' might be but the thought of wrapping his head around two words of Qunlat?
Just the one. Over and over, sliding to either side of sibilant or too guttural as he over-corrects while melting against Bull. ]
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Three fingers now, and if he spreads them it's enough to encounter that resistance anew, that line that marks too much closer again than before. But it's all at the same slow, steady pace as before.
Bull takes a breath, smelling oil and sweat and arousal on the air and on Zevran's skin, and leans close enough to press his knotted, scarred forehead to the elf's. ]
That's it. You're getting it.